


Dog Tags

by whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp



Series: Shorts/One Shots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dog Tags, Inappropriate Erections, Military Kink, One sided JohnLock, Sherlock's military kink, at crime scenes, but you know its canon, crushin from afar, hiding in small spaces, i would call this crack, this is tamer than it sounds tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3372590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp/pseuds/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds his dog tags in the back of a drawer and Sherlock seeks refuge in the nearest closet (literally I guess)...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Tags

**Author's Note:**

> for [Bryony](http://metallicar-parked-at-221b.tumblr.com/) bc she asked for the military kink and hiding in small spaces and her every wish is my command. here you go you gross human xx
> 
> im on [tumblr](http://whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp/) pls say hi :)

Honestly, he was surprised it took him so long to notice. Until now he'd been totally engrossed in the case - a particularly nasty double homicide - he hadn't spared a thought for anything else. He couldn't believe he'd spent the whole morning, the entire cab ride and a good five minutes squatting at the side of a body before he spotted the glint of silver against his flatmate's familiar beige knit. His eyes were draw to it immediately, his jaw going slack. Here he was, a sociopathic detective surrounded by fascinating crime scene, and all he could focus on was a simple chain and a rectangular piece of etched metal knocking gently against the dead man's shoulder. He abruptly felt a lot hotter - though it was still early January - and loosened his scarf a little with an irritable tug. Oh no. Distraction.

He cleared his throat and John instantly raised his eyebrows questioningly, he looked eager as always to hear his friend's brilliant observations. The tags clacked together as he moved and Sherlock coughed again. "What are you wearing?" he asked quietly.

John glanced down instinctively, a confused expression flitting across his face; he'd been expecting cutting deductions rather than a dig at his fashion sense. Following Sherlock's gaze though, he soon caught on and his fingers wrapped round the tags against his chest. He shrugged, "they were lying in my wardrobe, haven't worn them for a while." he raised an eyebrow, "Is there a problem?"

"Problem? No, no there's no problem." Sherlock answered, probably too hurriedly. His eyes flitted around the scene, watching the reactions from the surrounding officers. Lestrade was rolling his eyes but some of the lower officers were whispering. He hastily dropped his gaze back to the body, trying to get the case back into his head. Samuel Jones, forty-one, stab wound to the abdomen and left shoulder.

_Left shoulder..._

Crap, why was this so distracting? Two bits of metal and his usually focused mind was driven in another direction. The direction of his ex-army companion with a battle scar, a gun in his waistband and bloody dog tags. Well, they weren't bloody... Oh, god no don't start thinking about him covered in blood...

Sherlock cursed his own brain for what was probably only the third or fourth time in his life. He clenched his teeth as a wave of heat energy washed over his upper body and came to pool in the pit of his stomach. This was ridiculous, ridiculous and unheard of and confusing. He'd never experienced anything like this and he certainly couldn't work with it. He stood abruptly, his hand swimming absently and catching against the dangling metal. It was probably his now over active imagination but he was sure he could feel John's initials scratched against the warm steel. His fingers trembled as he met the Detective Inspector's eyes.

"I'm going..." he started, at a loss for an excuse to leave, "I'm going..." "You're going?" Lestrade asked exasperatedly. "Going." Sherlock stated firmly, already striding towards the door, flipping his coat collar up in an attempt to hide the flush spreading over his cheeks. He heard a familiar but, for once, the opposite of comforting 'you okay?' as he fled the room. He didn't answer.

 

Luckily, (well, not luckily for _him_ ) Samuel Jones had been murdered in his office block and there was a supply cupboard just down the hall. Sherlock slammed the door closed to plunge himself into darkness and instantly rounded on his brain. How could the stupid bunch of neurons be so affected, throw him so far off his game? This was an important case and he really didn't have the time to be aroused by -

 _Aroused_. Was he? It was very rare that he even thought about sexual attraction: it wasn't that he didn't feel it, he just couldn't really be bothered. It seemed like so much effort, being attracted to someone - lot of confusion and frustration. That wasn't to say he hadn't felt that wash of feeling before, but it had never been so destructive, he'd never been so distracted that he'd had to hide in a bloody cupboard. A bloody hot cupboard. Or maybe that was just him again. He swore and ripped the scarf from his throat, shrugging out of his coat and bracing his hands against the door. he was becoming painfully aware now of his position, there was almost defiantly space at his feet for a second person, especially if that person was smaller than him and wearing nothing except dog tags. Fuck. Now there was definitely no getting around it, he was most certainly aroused and it was entirely John's fault. This whole thing was so insanely unfair and embarrassing, he was almost sure the doctor had done it on purpose. He wandered what experiment or tactless comment had been deemed awful enough to trigger such an action of revenge as trapping him in a supply closet with laboured breathing and a growing heat between his legs. He found himself removing one hand from the door to flit across his belt. No no no that was not a good idea at all. He wouldn't have thought he had any sort of specific turn ons, but this was the most...  _affected_ he'd ever felt and no one was even touching him. It was purely from thinking about John bloody stupid Watson in ripped camouflage and a captain's hat and tags and a semi automatic, covered in blood and sweat, backing his flatmate into the mattress and -

 

"Sherlock, you okay?" came a sudden knock on the door, was his breathing really that loud? Sherlock cleared his throat forcibly, trying and failing to calm his racing pulse.

"Yes," he croaked, "Yes, I'm coming back, just a minute."

"You're definitely alright? You're kind of... hiding in a cupboard..."

"Definitely."

"Okay, well hurry up then we're all waiting." John said it lightheartedly, an attempt to diffuse what was more than a little unusual and tense, but the use of his imperative forced Sherlock into repressing another quiver.

He felt like an idiot. A pedestrian, mortified idiot. A pedestrian, mortified idiot more than willing to take orders from the man who's footsteps were now reseeding. He took a step back, focusing on his breathing and trying to focus on anything that would help alleviate any obvious physical attraction. Obviously no one, especially John, could know why he had vacated the crime scene so he had to straighten himself out (He snorted slightly at the irony of that last thought). After he had deemed himself fit to be seen in public he pulled his coat and scarf back on slowly. He still felt hot and he knew he was still blushing but it would have to do. Just a few more hours. It would only take him a few more hours to solve this case and get home. Just a few more hours of repressing these stupid feelings and then he could go home and have a long, cold shower.


End file.
